Wouldn't it be ironic?
by Nargle Hunter
Summary: Lord Voldermort and Harry Potter face off in the Final Battle. The events that occur next will shock the Wizarding World. Oneshot.


Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter stood across from each other, both eying each other like prey. They had been battling for hours now, neither one getting an advantage, and both of them tired of the endless fight.

On unspoken agreement, they stopped, and rested, studying each other for weaknesses.

Harry panted heavily, he was tired, cold, bloody and dirty. His friends were either hurt, dead, or dying on the battlefield. There were a few left fighting for their lives, the Death Eaters throwing out lethal spells left and right, without mercy. They were getting confident, sure that they would win this final battle. They were invincible. There was no loosing today.

Harry straightened up, ready to continue the fight. He had long since passed the point of no return when he had attacked the Dark Lord's stronghold, formerly known as the Ministry of Magic. There was a bleak future ahead if he didn't win. Too many people had already died for Harry to merely lay down and die. He would kill Tom Riddle, if even if it cost him everything he had. He raised his wand. "Adava Kedava!" he yelled out, hatred and desperation seeping into his voice.

A green light shot out towards the Dark Lord, who quickly dodged it and sent back his own barrage of spells and hexes.

It was on again.

Rather than try to block the oncoming spells, Harry ran behind a small brick wall that was just barely large enough to provide him cover. He peeked out from behind the wall just enough that he could spot his enemy's position. He had to duck as a sickly purple spell slammed into the wall, melting it in a loud hiss.

Voldemort approached the wall cautiously. "Potter." he hissed. "Come out now, and I may not make you die as slowly as I planned. Defy me, and you will die a painful death."

Harry stood up from behind the wall and looked at the blurry figure, he had lost his glasses earlier in the battle. "I will never give you what you want, you two faced son of a bitch!"

"Fine then, you little brat." Voldemort spat out. "Crucio!"

Harry couldn't dodge it in time, and before he knew it, he was on the ground screaming in agony. His body jerked, and he felt a snap in his right arm.

Voldemort continued to hold the curse. He delighted in watching Potter suffer. A nasty grin formed on his face as he watched the boy. For seventeen years, he had waited for this day. The day when he would be able to squash this little cockroach who refused to die, no matter how many times he attempted to squash it out. The boy was a little thorn in his side, one that the Dark Lord was more than happy to rip out.

He would finally kill the boy and gain control of the Wizarding World. Anybody that stood in his way would be shot down immediately, and the Mudbloods would be wiped out. He would hunt down those who had dared stand against him with Potter and make them an example to his subjects. They would know what the cost of rebellion would be. He would be their ruler, and they would learn to fear him. Even more so than they did already. It would not be a happy existence for those that survived. Only the loyal would be truly happy. He was brought back to the present by the sudden silence. Potter had passed out. Weakling. "Enervate." he said calmly.

Harry slowly opened his eyes. How long was he under the Crucio? It had felt like an eternity. His entire body ached, and his arm felt like it was on fire. He tried getting up, but only managed to make his arm twitch. He was a mess.

Voldemort stood above him sneering. "Why do you fight me so much? Is it that stupid Gryffindor mentality shoved into your brain by Dumbledore? Or maybe you're really stupid."

Harry raised his head. "I want to prove that a boy barely out of Hogwarts can beat the shit out of somebody like you countless times." He croaked, his voice raspy from screaming so violently. "I want to prove that it takes a lot more to take someone down, if only they have the right amount of determination. There is power in Good, and YOU are too weak to seek it."

"That's it!" Voldemort yelled, almost stamping his foot on the ground like a two year old. "I don't care what I said before! You are dead! Adava Kedavra!" The green beam of light hit Harry James Potter square in the chest. And just like that, he was gone. There was no time for the light to die in Harry's brilliant green eyes. It simply vanished. There was no chance for him to feel pain, for there was simply none. No chance for dying breaths, or last beats of the heart. It simply stopped, and with it, he was gone. The Boy-Who-Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World, and Chosen One. He died in the same way countless others before him had gone, at the hands of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the same man who had killed the parents, had also murdered the son, ending a great and long line.

Voldemort grinned, seeing no poetry in Harry Potter's death. His vicious red eyes lit up in glee at the victory he had just acquired. Finally, it was over. He had gotten rid of that pesky little brat. The Light would have nobody to call for help now. Good. He looked around the empty field, ready to apparate away. So much for that stupid prophecy and that whole bloody thing with 'the power he knows not'. What did the boy plan to do to him? Bleed on the Dark Lord until he died? No, Voldemort had won this fight fair and square.

He laughed out loud, watching as his Death Eaters slaughtered more of the resistance, ignoring the constricting feeling he felt in his chest. He was about to move on when the feeling grew tighter. Odd. Did the brat hit him with some kind of spell that Voldemort hadn't noticed? Whatever it was, it was a strange magic. There was a sharp pain in his chest along with the feeling of his left side going numb. He tried to breathe, but found it was in vain. Feeling a sudden weakness overcome him, Voldemort fell to his knees. _What's happening? I am Lord Voldemort! I cannot be killed!_

For several long minutes, Tom Marvolo Riddle lay on the ground, ignored by his Death Eaters and gasping for breath. His heart, which had been previously beating furiously had now started slowing down with each passing beat, until eventually, it gave one last beat, and stilled.

Later, it would be found that the deceased Dark Lord died of a heart attack, most likely caused from over exertion on the almost eighty year old body. The irony would not be lost on those who were more knowledgeable about muggle illnesses.


End file.
